secret santa

how does your silence find me
every time? it is precise and cold.
across summer evenings and winter
solstices. Nestled in what they call
the 'janus-faced hour'. When my laugh
pierces the entrails of a dull night sky
and leaves it grappling with glossy
smithereens of desire many light years
away, there you are,as sure as the north
star, my own Santa, always ready with
your gift of quiet. Its always christmas
with you, and i sit stoking embers of
unlit fires in non existent chimneys,
hanging an old sock that mother knit
before i was born, whose pair has been
long lost in the forest of carelessness
that life has somehow made it through.
sleeping dogs and snoring watchmen fade.
There is no snow. No reassuring breeze or
the pitter-patter of rain that songs are made of.

tight lipped nights burn into overcast mornings
heavy with the festive spirit of solitude.